


Realm of Two Queens

by einfach_mich



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Future, Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-04-20
Updated: 2013-04-20
Packaged: 2017-12-08 23:58:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,639
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/767613
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/einfach_mich/pseuds/einfach_mich
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Great War is but a memory, the stuff of dreams to a young wildling boy. He travels South, for the first time to meet the Red Queen, the Wolf of the Wall and walk among the legends he has only heard of in his grandmother's stories.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Realm of Two Queens

**Author's Note:**

> This is an AU version of the story, what I would love to happen after the end of the books, but I know can never be. It's a flimsy salve for the sucking chest wound canon has left behind. Feel Free to enjoy or disregard.
> 
> There may be some more. I'll post it as it comes to me.

“Stay close, Mutt,” Kon hissed at him, yanking him back into the line of free folk filing through the main gate of Winterfell, the largest city in the North.

The little boy clung to his brother’s ragged cloak and scanned the bustling streets of the Northern capital. A man pushed a small cart covered in a brightly colored ribbons and jewels, while a group of young boys played strange instruments and sang. Children older than he danced to the music, dressing in rich fabrics more beautiful than anything he’d ever dreamed. He remembered Gran’s stories about South of the wall, the rich kingdoms with fat-bellied children, soft women and men who were so pretty that men took them for brides as often they took the maids. 

“Look, Bronn.” Kon extended his mud-crusted finger toward the top of the city wall. “Dragons.”

Bronn raised his eyes, and gasped. Set at evenly spaced points along the smooth black stone of the wall were towering figures of dragons, each with equally hulking figures of direwolves guarding their sides. The dragons’ eyes were glittering red jewels, while the wolves here a bright, almost white blue that reminded the boy of the icy North. 

“They’re to honor the treaty with the Queen of the South,” Gelder rasped, his half toothless mouth spraying spit as he spoke to the boys. “When she married Prince Jon, she gave the Red Queen the North to rule. Even the Mother of Dragons respects the old laws.”

“There must always be a Stark in the North.” Kon recited the old law, one that he’d heard upon the lips of elders all his short life. 

Starks were of the first men, like free folk, but blessed with magic that rivaled even the great dragon queen of the south. Gran had told him of the great war, how the Southern kingdoms fought like greedy children over the throne of swords, how the old mother had risen from her sleep, and ridden her fiery beasts across the sea.

He had many nightmares of the scaled, fire breathing witch queen. They said her hair was white as the snow, because her heart was cold and dead as stone. That it took a crow to chip away the ice and calm her flames: Jon Snow, Bastard Prince of Westeros and consort to the Mother of Dragons. 

Bronn never cared much for that part of the story. It sounded more like the boring love poems Briar liked to sing while she braided the little one’s hair, silly stories where heroes talked more than fought. He liked the story of the Red Queen best.

The Red Queen was a Northern princess stolen by a mad king, who sacrificed her direwolf to his gods and began the great war that would shatter the Wall and unite all the descendents of the First Men. He would wait patiently while Gran warbled on through all the boring bits with the fat spider, the tiny finger and the folly of the wolf king. They didn’t matter, because none of them had saved the princess. That was what he liked best, because the girl who would become the Red Queen saved herself. 

She poisoned the mad king, escaped his kingdom and eventually reaped revenge from all who had wronged her family. It was then, with the blood of her enemies still wet upon her hands, when Sansa Stark first faced the Mother of Dragons. 

“Haden.” A voice rang out across the courtyard, bring their group to a sudden halt. 

“Your Majesty.” The old crow dismounted from his gelding and knelt before a large man with rust-colored hair.

He stood as tall as a tree, with wide shoulders and a thick beard the color of copper. A grey wolf pelt covered his shoulders and most of his cloak. The direwolf crest that Bronn had seen on the city gates decorated the armor on his chest. 

“Enough of that.” The man practically lifted the crow off his feet as he pulled him into a friendly embrace. “How fairs the brotherhood?”

“Same as always, Sire. Thin of humor, thick on piss.” Both men began to walk, side by side, while they spoke of the Wall and the steady stream of free folk continuing to enter the kingdom seeking refuge and the promise of the long Summer.

Bronn tugged on Kon’s cloak, gesturing toward the man, but it was Gelder who answered the unasked question with a wet laugh. 

“That be Prince Rickon, boy.” Gelder nodded his head toward to a hulking shadow that trotted up beside the prince. “Mind your throats around his devil hound.”

Bronn hid in the folds of his brother’s cloak. He had seen direwolves before, but those were the thin scavengers of the North. The beast that strode beside the prince stood as tall as a horse, and was twice as thick. 

He had heard stories of them as well. The Blood Prince and his devil hound. They killed many enemies of the North and some said they even tasted the flesh of the fallen. Bronn didn’t believe that part. Only craven men with disease of the mind and soul ate the dead, but now he could believe that the beast, at least, had grown strong on the flesh of fallen soldiers. 

“This lot is fresh from the Wall, mostly younglings, but there are a few strong lads to take the grey.” Haden turned back to gesture toward the group, while the Blood prince’s gaze passed over them all. 

“A fine group, by my estimation. The queen will wish to see them to take their oath before there’s talk of their fate.” The prince’s bright eyes, so like the wolves' figures upon the wall, fixed on Bronn for a frightening second before returning to the crow.   
The prince and the crow continued to lead the group through the winding streets of the capital, the wolf keeping pace beside them. Bronn held tight to Kon’s cloak, while the Gelder and the old crone, Mia, tottered along. He wondered if he should slow down, but Kon grabbed the collar of his tunic, hauling him forward several steps and snarled. “Pick up your feet, Bronn.”

***

The throne room was as big as the courtyard they crossed upon entering the city, with ceilings so high Bronn grew dizzy when he tried to study the paintings upon them. There had been a painting of a red haired maiden riding a green dragon through a lightning storm. Another showed the Wall cracked open like an egg, the armies of the free men pouring into the South. They were the stories of the great war, tales of the Red Queen’s ascension to power and the reunification of the Southern kingdoms of Westeros. 

Bronn returned his gaze to the thrones set upon a dais at the end of the room. The thrones themselves were large iron chairs, each topped with spires of shining dragon glass. He wondered if they were from the very spears that the Bastard Prince and his ravens had used against the white walkers. They had held the wall while the Dragon Queen flew down upon the armies of the dead, seated upon a dragon so black the simple folk thought it was the night made flesh. The Red Queen had been there that day, astride the green dragon; both queens had rained fire down upon the armies of the dead, turning them into a sea of ash.

Now, she sat upon the throne in the center, her crimson hair spiraling down the front her black and gray dress. The skirt spilled out across the steps leading toward the dais, like a sea of ash. To her right sat Prince Bran, a blanket of wolf pelts covering his lap, hiding his useless legs from curious eyes. Prince Rickon took his throne to the left of the queen, while his wolf stood beside the base of the dais, his dark eyes scanning the gathering.

“I pardon your highness, but too many winters have made stiffened these old bones,” Gelder rasped, while trying to kneel to take his oath before the queen.

“Please do not trouble yourself,” the queen said with a smile, and gestured for him to remain standing. “It is no easy thing for a free man to bend his knee to any crown.”

She rose from her throne, taking the few steps down to meet Gelder, and took his hand. Her skin was smooth and pale as fresh milk, making the old man’s wrinkled stained hand look like a withered old branch. Then before the entire court, and small group of free men, the Red Queen kneeled before old Gelder, who looked ready to shat himself with fright.

“Know this, Gelder son of Gnasher; when you give your oath, you receive one in return.” Her voice echoed through the chamber, and was quickly joined by two others. Prince Rickon stood from his throne and joined the queen, upon bended knee, while Prince Bran remained upon his own throne, a warm smile upon his face. “As long as a Stark sits upon the throne, you will be under our protection.”

“My queen...” Gelder muttered, looking dumbstruck and pale as snow.

“May I be forever worthy to serve you as such.” The queen smiled as she rose, and turned to address the rest of the group. “Free men and women of the North, you are now in the Southlands, the realm of the Two Queens of Westeros. Gone are the days of toiling beneath greedy lords and ladies, who treat their people as little more than slaves. This is a land of free people, who are protected by their queens. Together we thrive; divided we fall.”

Bronn joined the rest of the group who quickly moved to kneel before the queen. He tried to get closer, but was so distracted by her beauty that he collided into a large figure in a woolen robes. Bronn stumbled to the floor, his palms hitting the stone with a hard slap.

“Slow down there, lad.” A gravelly voice warned him, while a wide hand with a strong grasp lifted him back onto his feet. 

Bronn struggled to turn and address the large man. He was about to attempt to gesture his apology, but once he got a look at the face above him, he froze. He stared, mouth agape, at The Burnt Man.

Bronn believed many of Gran's stories. Being born in the North, he had seen many magical creatures. His uncle had been a Warg. He had even met a giant: Cobs, the first giant to take the black and become a crow. But never had he ever truly believed that any man could survive dragon’s fire. 

It was said to have happened when the young princess was brought before the Mother of Dragons, blood still fresh upon her hands, while her warden and betrayer lay lifeless at the foot of the throne of swords. She had been ordered to knee for judgment, but she would not yield. Instead she stood proud. The stories said that one of the dragons moved forward, many believed to devour the girl whole, but a lone monk set himself between the girl and beast. He was quickly engulfed in flames, but the princess threw herself upon him to smother the flames and when she arose all saw she was unharmed by the fire.

On that day she was embraced as kin by the Southern Queen, and the monk who had survived the flames, the Burnt Man, walked in her shadows. Her eternal guardian, blessed by the gods, but cursed to carry the marks of his devotion in the twisted visage of his face. 

“Is he ill?” The queen’s concerned expression swam before Bronn’s face, her pale skin and bright eyes like a balm in the wake of the horror he’d just seen. 

“No, Majesty. I believe he was stunned by my beauty.” The Burnt Man chuckled, a harsh and unpleasant sound that did not seem to grate the queen’s nerves as it did Bronn’s. 

“My own is but a pale shadow,” she replied, casting her gaze up at her guardian. Her expression and tone held the deepest of sincerely.

“Attend the boy, and leave the pretty songs for later.” He stepped away, and Bronn was able to relax in the queen’s grasp. 

“Tell me, your name.” The queen turned her eyes back to him, and he began to feel weak again.

“Bronn.” Kon stepped forward and bowed awkwardly. “Pardon, highness. He has no voice. Gran said the cold took it from him when he was in Ma’s belly.”  
“Are your Gran and Mother here?” She glanced between the two boys. 

“Naw, they both died in the a snap frost two winters back. Gelder’s been mindin’ us ever since.” Kon nodded toward the old man who was still looking a bit awestruck. 

“Bronn.” She gave him a measuring gaze. “I once knew a Bronn. He was deadly with a sword and even became Captain of the City guard. Would you like to grow strong and learn the way of the sword?”

He nodded vigorously, and smiled. She stood, taking his hand in her own, and led him toward a slender figure standing beside Prince Bran’s throne. Bronn assumed he must have not noticed the person at first, because they were covered in plain black clothes from head to toe. Only their eyes could be seen through a narrow opening in an intricately wrapped head covering. 

“The Mistress of Shadows has been looking for an apprentice,” the queen said, gesturing to the figure. “It is not easy, but if you wish to learn the ways of the sword there is no better teacher in all of Westeros.”

Bronn nodded his head vigorously, and the Mistress of Shadows kneeled down to hold out a gloved hand. Sitting in the center of her black leather covered palm sat a coin with the figure of a cat upon its face. He looked at the strange, covered woman, and she nodded for him to take it. 

“It’s a gift,” the queen encouraged him, and he finally took it.

The silver was cool against his fingers; upon the other side was the image of two crossed swords. The coin alone could buy enough food for his brother and he to eat for months, but he had the feeling it wasn’t meant to buy food. He looked up from his gift, intending to thank the Mistress, but she was gone. 

“She has a habit of doing that; you’ll grow used to it,” the queen reassured him and called over a steward, instructing him to set up the entire group in the quarters with hot meals.

“These young men should be escorted to the royal quarters,” she commanded, while Kon stepped up beside him. “The youngest is to be given the apprentice stipend and the eldest can steward for Bran if he wishes.”

“Thank you, Majesty.” Kon spoke for both of them as they bowed, and she politely waved away their gratitude.

“Thank me after Bran’s had you running around the archives for a day,” she laughed, and turned back to the throne. “Then you’ll be begging to muck out the stables just to get some rest.”

“Don’t scare the boy before I’ve even had a crack at him, Sansa,” Prince Bran protested with a playful grin. 

“Someone should warn the boy,” Prince Rickon joined in with a hearty laugh. “Gods know no one did me that kindness. My back still aches from balancing on ladders with the chronicles of Master Klove stacked so high I couldn’t see.”

“To think, a crown prince of the North whining like an old man,” Prince Bran mocked, while the queen struggled to maintain her composure as she dismissed the group from the throne room.


End file.
